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The Suburban Outlaw on the good and bad of birth order.

I’m the youngest in my family by seven years, and I’ve enjoyed reminding my older siblings of that fact as we’ve aged. In response, my sister likes to complain about all the special treatment I received because of the accident of birth order.

She claims I received all sorts of advantages: My parents were more lenient with me, had more cash, were too tired to really fight back and—the old favorite—gave me more. “More” meaning stuff, time, attention—you name it.

For the longest time, I argued that I had it harder as the youngest. Our parents knew what to expect from me because of all the bad things my older siblings had already done. So I had to follow all their rules, which had been set by behavior that occurred before I was even born.

She scoffed at my argument. And then it occurred to me that perhaps she was right. Maybe it is better to be the youngest.

As the youngest of four children with seven years and four years, respectively, between my siblings and me (twins at the top and then another brother), maybe I did have more opportunities because of my place in the family. I got to travel alone with my parents to places like England and France. My parents were easier on me, although I was probably easier on them, too. That, and they had gotten better at their parenting jobs after having three older kids.

Being the youngest helps to shape your behavior as an adult in many positive ways. They say youngest children are more creative, outgoing and confident. Studies have shown that many actors and comedians are the youngest in their families. (So it was pre-determined I’d love show business.)

Because I was the youngest, I was always the one who was forced to come out and perform for my parents’ friends. Because, by that point, I was cuter than my siblings. I also tried hard to please everyone who was older in the house, as both a defense mechanism and a means to getting what I wanted.

My sister will admit there was a time when I was her plaything and willing servant. As her plaything, she did things like pluck out all my eyebrows. As her servant, I would jump whenever she asked me to do something.

And then it happened. I grew up and realized I didn’t have to answer her every beck and call. Still, like any other former captive, I still identify with my captor, and I often find myself still doing whatever she tells me to do, merely because she’s the oldest.

In our family, my husband and I realized that our son, the oldest of our two children, is outnumbered by youngest children: He has a little sister, and my husband is also a youngest child. As a result, we tend to identify more with our daughter on topics of fairness based on birth order. (She has helped remind us by her constant battle cry of, “That’s not fair!”)

She has always been a typical younger child, competing with everything her brother did, and even taking on his sports. She followed him into tae kwon do and lacrosse until she realized she hated both. In some ways, his being older has pushed her to greater heights. Since he was all-school president, we were assured she would also run (thank goodness, she won). But she’s also completely different, not just because she’s younger and a girl, but because she’s uniquely herself.

As a parent, you get used to parenting one way, and then along comes this whole other person whom you have to parent differently. But some things remain the same no matter the birth order, especially when it comes to circumventing your parents’ rules.

We fell asleep at the wheel a bit when she became a teenager, thinking she would never do the same things our son did because she was always the innocent baby in the family. In reality, she was just way more creative when she was being “bad.” Clearly, she had watched her brother and how easily he was caught doing things he shouldn’t do. No details are necessary—if you’re the parent of a teenager, you know what I’m talking about. Lesson learned: Watch out for those sweet, innocent youngest children. They will fool you every time.

“Watch out for those sweet, innocent youngest children. They will fool you every time.”

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In our house, we even see the inequities play out between our dogs. The older must somehow be silently seething as I bring home every manner of chew toy, treat and cushy bed for our new puppy. Curley, the older dog, is constantly looking at me like, ‘Seriously? You made me sleep on a hard crate for years, and this one gets a soft blanket?’

She looks at me desperately as the younger dog, Moe, chews on her every chance he gets. Watching them has made me realize that part of the resentment of older siblings comes from the fact that younger siblings can be downright annoying.

I think all of our older siblings would be able to share annoying younger sibling moments. Like the time(s) I walked in on my sister and her boyfriend and screamed to my parents what they were doing. Or when my husband used to pretend his brother was beating him up. His brother would be innocently watching TV when my husband would grab his own buttocks until the skin turned beet red and scream, “Mom, he’s hitting me!” His mother bought the trick every time.

Despite such annoyances, his older brother has always played the role of protector—especially when their mom was dealing with cancer from the time my husband was 6 years old. To this day, his older brother is the one who gives him counsel and perspective. My sister has done the same for me, especially now that we are older and are dealing with the same life changes, such as helping our own aging mother.

Our mother happened to be the youngest as well. She had two brothers who were six and nine years older, respectively. One brother died a few years ago on Christmas Eve and the other, her oldest brother, died this year on New Year’s Eve at the age of 95. They left home for college and to fight in World War II when she was still young, but she always loved them. After my father died 13 years ago, my mother became even closer to her oldest brother, who helped her through her loss.

A few weeks ago, she cried at the loss of her dear brother, but I know she was also crying for her lost place in the world. Now that he was gone, she became the only one left of her family of origin.

But she should take heart in knowing that she is who she is because of how her older brothers helped form her and buoy her through life. That didn’t go away.

Ultimately, if we last, our siblings are the people who know us longer than anyone else on the planet. No matter how crazy or annoyed they make us—or we, in turn, make them—they do make us who we are, for all our lives.